“You missed the turnoff by the old mill today,” I said.
He did not stop scraping, his shoulder moving in short, hard jerks.
“I took the scenic route,” he said.
“The sign was right there, Richard, clear as day.”
I waited, my hand resting on the wooden railing of the porch.
He blew a gray cloud of dust off the sole of his left boot.
I could hear his shallow breathing in the quiet of the yard.
He did not look up at me.
“My driving is fine, Clara,” he said.
He stood up, holding the boots by the laces.
The quiet screen door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone with the chill of the evening air.
The next morning, the frost had turned the lawn gray, and a few crisp oak leaves were stuck to the windshield of the Buick. I took the broom to the front porch steps to clear away the damp debris that had settled into the corners overnight.
Gary’s white cruiser rolled up the driveway, stopping just short of the woodpile. He climbed out carrying a small cardboard box, his boots heavy on the packed dirt. He had retired from the sheriff’s department two years ago, but he still wore his tan uniform jacket on cold mornings.
